


Bottom of a Well

by brynnmck



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-15
Updated: 2005-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Dee's earpiece gives her a headache after awhile, so sometimes, on late shifts, the Old Man (she always thinks of him that way: </i>the Old Man<i>, with capital letters) lets her pipe the comm traffic through to the speaker on her console."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottom of a Well

**Author's Note:**

> Quite a while back, [](http://rogairedubh.livejournal.com/profile)[**rogairedubh**](http://rogairedubh.livejournal.com/) requested non-angsty Cmdr. Adama with a side of Dee. This came out more like Dee with a side of Adama, garnished with a light sprinkle of Starbuck and Apollo, but I gave it my best shot. :) So, for [](http://rogairedubh.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rogairedubh.livejournal.com/)**rogairedubh** , with much love, and wishing you could come over for good food, good beer, and good TV, every once in awhile.
> 
> Much thanks to [](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://danceswithwords.livejournal.com/)**danceswithwords** , brilliant beta and all-around wonderful person.

_There are stars in the daylight_  
 _But no one can ever tell_  
 _You can only see them from the bottom of a well_  
 _I have been down to the bottom_  
 _I appreciate the view_  
 _But I'm on my way up and I'm comin' to tell you_  
 _I'm alright_  
 _\- Jeffrey Foucault, "I'm Alright"_

Dee glances at the clock on the display screen in front of her, stifles a yawn. Normally she’d be in her rack by now, but she’d traded shifts with Petty Officer Tyler two days ago to sneak a date with Billy on _Colonial One_ , and now it’s time to pay the piper.

 _It was worth it, though_ , she thinks, remembering how adorably flustered and proud he’d been, giving her a tour, and the stunned, pleased look on his face when she’d kissed him at the end of the night. Her mind drifts for a moment to how stunned and pleased she could make him if she really applied herself, but then she pulls her attention back to her duties, a wicked grin the only hint of what she’s thinking.

The comm is nearly silent for the moment, anyway, just the gentle hiss of static feeding into the quiet CIC. Her earpiece gives her a headache after awhile, so sometimes, on late shifts, the Old Man (she always thinks of him that way: _the Old Man_ , with capital letters) lets her pipe the comm traffic through to the speaker on her console. He’s never said as much, but she thinks he enjoys listening to the pilots, seeing that side of them, so the arrangement works out well for both of them.

It’s Starbuck and Apollo on CAP tonight, with Stubbs and Racetrack backing them up in a Raptor. Technically, the CAG and the top pilot shouldn’t be sharing a patrol. But every few days, their names come up in the rotation together, and it’s easier to send them out than to rearrange the schedule—at least, that’s the story they gave the Old Man, and he seemed to buy it. Dee’s starting to suspect there’s more to it than that—in fact, she’s considering starting up a little betting pool or two on the subject—but she’s stuck here for the moment, so all she can do is wish for some popcorn.

As if on cue, Starbuck's voice crackles over the comm. “Apollo, this is Starbuck. Request permission to tell you that this patrol is the most boring two hours of my life to date.”

“Denied,” comes Apollo’s response, and even though she doesn’t know his voice nearly as well as the other pilots’, Dee can hear the laugh in it. “Besides,” he continues, “under these circumstances, boring is a good thing.”

“In that case,” and Dee definitely knows the sound of Starbuck’s grin, “under these circumstances, you must be the best thing ever.”

It’s insubordinate and Dee’s seen Apollo go cold and serious at much less, but now he just laughs. “I _handed_ you that one, Kara.”

“I know,” Starbuck sighs. “It was kind of beneath me, actually.”

“Well, then it’s got plenty of company,” Apollo shoots back, and damn, Dee didn’t think the Captain had it in him. Stubbs’ and Racetrack’s “oooooh"s echo over the link, with Starbuck’s cackle running over the top of them.

Dee can’t quite keep in a giggle of her own, and she hears a strangled noise from the corner of the room, glances over to where the Old Man is sitting, bent over a stack of flimsies. But the noise must have been background from the feed, because he’s just studying the papers in front of him, expressionless. Colonel Tigh had showed up to relieve him about twenty minutes ago, but the Commander had dismissed him, saying he had another hour’s worth of paperwork and Tigh might as well get some extra shut-eye. The XO had promised to come back in half an hour, which Dee had appreciated, because she’s worried about the Old Man. The lines in his face are deeper than ever, and she can see the weight of responsibility on him—he stands like Atlas, with the whole fleet on his shoulders, and he’s the closest thing she has to family now; she wants to protect him any way she can.

Apollo’s voice comes over the comm again, but she can’t make out what he’s saying because for a second all she can hear is the memory of the Commander’s voice, shouting, “Lee! _Lee!_ ” as the tiny dot of the Colonial One bloomed and disappeared off her dradis screen. She shudders. That kind of thing seems to ambush her all the time these days, and she focuses on the chatter again, takes refuge in duty and routine.

“Permission to spice up this patrol, sir,” Starbuck’s asking now; on their last shared CAP, Apollo had ribbed her about insubordination, so tonight she seems to be delighting in asking his permission for everything from shifting her position to adjusting her underwear.

“What did you have in mind, Lieutenant?” Apollo answers, the textbook definition of long-suffering.

“Think you can still pull off a Washburne Gauntlet?”

Dee’s eyebrows raise. It’s an incredibly complicated maneuver—a series of maneuvers, really, a sort of invisible obstacle course that requires pinpoint precision on the parts of both pilots. She saw it performed once, as a child visiting the Fleet Academy on Picon; since then, she’s never seen anyone attempt it, not even Starbuck.

Apollo doesn’t immediately reply, and Dee can almost see the calm, controlled CAG mask coming down over his face—she’s watched him perfecting it in the CIC the past couple of weeks, facing down his father or Tigh or, occasionally, Starbuck. It’s getting more effective. _No way he goes for this_.

So she’s pretty stunned when he finally says, “I don’t know, Kara—you think you can keep up?”

“Only one way to find out,” Starbuck answers, and she hasn’t sounded so gleeful and pleased and _Starbuck_ since the end of the world. On the console screen, the small blip of her Viper starts a lazy arc, putting space between her and Apollo. Stubbs and Racetrack laugh with excitement, offer encouragement and taunts as the two Vipers maneuver into position.

“ _Galactica_ , Apollo.”

She almost jumps at the sudden address, but recovers quickly. “Go ahead, Apollo.”

“How’s dradis looking?”

Dee glances over at the Old Man, half-expecting a veto, but he’s just staring at the table in front of him. It occurs to her that she hasn’t heard him turn a page in minutes. She shrugs a little, grins, and tells Apollo, “Clear skies, sir. Wish I could be on the obs deck for this one.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Dee, but we’d rather have you right where you are. Keep an eye out, let us know if you see anything unusual at all.”

“Wilco, sir. I’ve got you covered.”

“Quit stalling, Apollo,” Starbuck breaks in.

“Just waiting for you, Starbuck. You ready?”

“You know me, Lee—I’m always ready.”

Dee grins as she imagines the expression on Apollo’s face, but he only hesitates slightly before he says, “Just try not to embarrass yourself. We go on my mark. One… two… three… mark,” and then there’s silence except for indrawn breaths and the metallic clank of thruster pedals as the two Vipers leap into motion.

Her dradis screen shows the maneuver in fits and starts, spaces where there should be smooth arcs, but Dee fills in the blanks in her head and it’s almost as good as seeing it first-hand. The two ships weave and dart like there’s a string between them, swinging wide apart, then rushing in so close their lights blur together on her screen, and she imagines the tight spin that brings their hulls within a few feet of each other. Then they’re apart again, flipping and curving in perfect unison, into the next series of maneuvers. It’s half-battle and half-dance and the entire thing takes about twenty seconds, but it feels like an eternity. It’s a good thing the Cylons decide to stay home because she’s holding her breath, can’t take her eyes off of the small, pixilated lights of the whirling Vipers.

Then they sweep in close again for one final pass, pull out and roll and it’s over, and Starbuck is shouting exultantly and Apollo is laughing and Stubbs and Racetrack are whooping and applauding, crowding the comm, and it feels a little bit like victory. Dee can’t help the smile that spreads warm and bright across her face, and when she looks over at the Old Man, he’s still staring at the desk in front of him, and he’s smiling, too.

And suddenly Dee understands.

With the joy still pouring over the link, loud even with the volume down, she offers, “Commander?”

He glances over at her; for a second, the look in his eyes stuns her. Then he’s the Commander again, calm and solid and reassuring. “Yes, Dee?”

She clears her throat. “I just thought… when Colonel Tigh returns to relieve you, I could patch the feed into your quarters, sir. If you’d like to continue monitoring the CAP.”

He looks at her, measuring, and then he smiles again, and this time she could swear there’s gratitude in it, and there’s definitely affection. “Thank you, Dee. I’d appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, sir.” She can feel herself blushing, so she looks down at her screen, and when she looks up again, Colonel Tigh is there, relieving his superior officer with a crisp salute. Dee picks up her headset again, turns off the speakers, punches the necessary code to feed the transmission to private quarters. Starbuck and Apollo are teasing each other now, nitpicking each other's supposed mistakes as they catch their breath and field commentary from the Raptor crew. Typical pilot bullshitting; she never thought she’d be glad to hear it.

The Commander accepts his relief without protest, and she thinks his shoulders are a little straighter as he strides purposefully from the CIC. She smiles, watching him go, and for half a second she misses her father so much she can hardly breathe. But then Tigh is asking for a report and she’s responding, automatically, with the all-clear. And for the moment, for the first time in what feels like forever, she realizes that she actually means it.


End file.
